Valentine's Rising (30 page)

“I know,” Valentine audibilized this time, though he kept his voice down. “I've got the newest battalion in Hamm's division.”

Her hands fluttered like fighting birds; she'd always been better than he at signing. “You say it like it's your fault. It's not. Being mistress to not one, but two, count 'em, two generals and an oily restaurateur wasn't in my plans when I got tasked with infiltration. Mantilla's one of us, too. Not a Cat, but he reports directly to the Lifeweavers. I haven't had the chance to tell him about you.”

“You said you have orders from Southern Command?” he signed.

“From the Lifeweavers. They're in hiding, naturally. No sign of Ryu, but your old man Amu's been passing stuff back and forth to me through some Wolves and Mantilla.”

“Anything for me?”

She rested her hands for a moment. “Yes, I've got orders. They want you to raise a ruckus behind the lines once the offensive gets under way. Theirs or ours, whichever comes first. Cut the north-south line through Little Rock so they can't shift their forces south quickly. Tie down as many of them as you can for as long as you can.”

“If they can hold out a few more months, it'll be a different story. Consul Solon's about to send more of his army back to where they borrowed it. Texas, mostly.”

“I've thought they seemed in a big hurry. This is just a guess, but I think something's in the works, Val. Southern Command's going to strike back somewhere unexpected, at least I hope so. If you can gum things up here—”

“I'll see what I can do. What's my line of retreat? Back west to the Ouachitas?”

“I've got nothing for you about that. They said just cause as much trouble as you can, for as long as you can.”

“Who's my superior?” Valentine asked.

“I've no idea. I don't think Southern Command knows much more than that you're in here with some men. They're leaving it up to you.”

“Well, there's more. I brought back something, something that kills Reapers. I put that in the report that went out with Finner.”

“If you've got something that kills Reapers, start using it. Mantilla might be able to get some to the rest of Southern Command.”

“It's just wood. It's some kind of catalyst, acts on the thickening agent in their blood. They seize up and die.”

Duvalier pursed her lips in thought. “Wood isn't much help against artillery and armored cars. Speaking of Reapers, that's the second thing I've got to tell you. They arrested a captain on Hamm's staff. I've been stealing papers and I planted some on him to string this out a little more. I think Hamm's getting set to get rid of me. He used to bring his briefcase and what have you when we were together. No more. Kur knows there's a spy in his division. He's taking precautions.”

“Good. I'm the new guy; they'll look at me.”

“I doubt it. It's gone on since Hamm's predecessor, and they know it. I took him out, by the way. It was business and pleasure. He tried to pass me around like a party favor.”

“That house fire. I heard the sad story. Sounded like your handiwork, Smoke.”

She smiled and said in a whisper, “That's better than ‘funbunny.' You know I wouldn't do the pillow recon if it wasn't for all this shit. The next incendiary device is going down Hamm's pants, then I'm blowing town.”

“I'll try to light a fire of my own.”

“Be careful.”

“Sounds like the orders are to be destructive. That doesn't always go along with being careful.”

“Well—”

“Ali, there's something you could do for me. Sort of a last request.”

“Still Hornied up?” she said, incredulity written in block capitals on her forehead. “I thought that tall drink of water took care of you. Dream on.”

He went back to sign language: “Get me whatever you can on Xray-Tango. He used to serve on the plains. He might even be semifriendly.”

“That'll be tricky,” she signed back. “I don't even know who's got the intelligence archives.”

“Anything you can get me would help,” he said.

“I'll see if I can get a message out. Maybe some Wolf can find you with the answer. How important is this?”

“It's important to me. He's got some strange qualities. Makes me think a parent of his might have been a Hunter. Sometimes things get passed down.”

“I'll do what I can.”

Valentine stood up. “That's always more than enough.” “Thanks, Ghost.”

“Keep it safe, Smoke.”

She gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “I've missed working with you, Val,” she breathed in his ear. “You're one of the good ones.”

Without further explanation, she left.

Valentine picked up his clothes, and looked around RC's shared room. There was a tiny stuffed bear sitting on a shelf in the closet above where the silk cocktail dress hung. He wondered about the little girl it had once belonged to.

 

He realized he was whistling as he descended the stairs, strangely buoyant. There was sunshine above New Columbia, though the clouds were building as they crept in from the west, but something more than the sun cheered him. RC had brought him an egg-and-toast breakfast after her bath, returning to the half-servant, half-girlfriend manners of the previous night. The taste of fresh eggs and butter wasn't it either. Perhaps it was just the knowledge that Ali was alive and well, and around to help. Despite the hangover he felt as though a door had been thrown open inside him; the world was giving him another day and another chance.

It crossed his mind that it could be the prospect of action. He'd been nervous and breathless since Duvalier's update; plans began to form in his head immediately, and with that momentum his mind shifted to a higher gear. He felt damnably close to precognitive, like a gambler pushing all his winnings onto the green double zero on the roulette table knowing the ball would fall to that slot on the next spin.

Raise a ruckus . . . raise a ruckus . . .
Duvalier's words ran through his head like the trumpet's flourish in her rollicking song from last night. He realized where the tune he was whistling had come from.

He made his way through the alley, past the rat-infested Dumpster, and out into the spring sunshine. General Hamm, Reeves and a few of his other officers were enjoying a café breakfast outdoors.

“Coffee's hot, Le Sain, join us,” Hamm called.

Valentine grabbed an empty chair. “Thank you. Just one cup, though. I've got to get across the river, General. The battalion is probably wondering what happened to me.”

“They'll survive a few more hours. We had some funny business in the night, Le Sain. You've got some mud on your collar, by the way.” Hamm stared at the stain for a moment, then continued. “One of my officers was taken away, and I don't like it. Williams. You remember him?”

“I met him last night,” Valentine said, remembering the vigorous young officer, exchanging jibes with the rest of the table, frightened only by the bar tab he was running up. “But he wasn't on the trip out to the Consul's Residence.”

“No. No, he wasn't. Apparently he went rooting through my papers while I was away.”

“He had access to them?”

“He was my chief of staff's assistant,” Hamm said, eyes leveled like firing squad muzzles at Reeves. Reeves looked a little pale in the morning sunshine.

Valentine tucked his collar under his tunic, hiding Ali's pasty smear.

“Who came—”

“The usual,” Hamm cut him off. “By the time they woke me, he was gone, or I'd have asked some questions. I can't figure out why someone with access to my office would steal everyday correspondence. Something from the safe, yes, that'd be valuable to those crackers. But why steal letters about the state of the transport system in northern Arkansas . . . err, the Upper Trans-Mississippi? We're supposed to stop with the old state designations, by the way, Le Sain. Solon's orders.”

“Because he wasn't a spy, someone wanted him to look like one?” Valentine said, feeling that it was a rhetorical question due out of Hamm's mouth within about five seconds.

Hamm leaned closer to him. “It's looking like there's a spy in my headquarters, Knox. We got royally raped last October, and I think it's because someone knew the hour and date we were pulling out of the line and sidling.”

“Ask Solon for different orders for the offensive, or to move up the date, and keep them to yourself until the last minute, is my suggestion, sir. That or get a bigger safe.”

“I'm wondering if I need a new chief of staff. I get the feeling you can organize and think for yourself. I need to replace Williams. You want the job? Staff work's a lot nicer than line duty.”

“Sir, your offer is tempting, but I have to stay with my men—at least until all this is over. I want to see them blooded.”

“Thought you were looking for promotion, responsibility. That'd come with a staff position. They make general more often than not.”

“I am, sir, but responsibility is like water. It flows better from the top down.”

Hamm murmured Valentine's words, trying them out on his tongue. “Hey, I like that. Mind if I use it in my next speech to the division?”

“I'd be honored, sir. But I need to get back across the river—oh, speaking of the river, where can I find Captain Mantilla? I'd like to put in an order.”

“His tug's tied up at the wharf right now. It's battleship gray, with big blue letters on it. OGL. You need something, son?”

“Bourbon and tobacco. Not for me, for my officers.”

“I like your style, Le Sain. I'm glad you're in my division.”

 

The barge was even uglier than the old
Thunderbolt
. It looked like a couple of aluminum mobile homes piled on a raft, and needed a lot of rust-stripping before another coat of gray. Sure enough, gigantic letters stood out on the side just below the carbon-coated stack, OGL.

The anchor watch was asleep. A fleshy man, bald as Valentine and bronze-skinned by birth and sun, slept in the sun at the end of the gangway. An iodine-colored bottle rested between his legs.

“Excuse me, boatman?” Valentine said, venturing up the gangplank. He still felt as though there was an inch of air between his feet and the ground—and he couldn't stop looking at the bridge over the Arkansas River, and Solon's Residence hill beyond.

If anything, the snoring grew louder.

“Sir?”

Valentine came closer. The man was a dedicated napper, so much so that he sacrificed shaving and bathing in its pursuit.

Valentine flicked his fingernail against the bottle, eliciting a
ting
. “Closing time. Last call,” Valentine tried, a little more loudly.

“Hrumph . . . umpfh . . . umpfh . . . double me up again, good buddy,” the anchor watch said, coming awake in eye-blinking confusion.

“Did I guess the password?”

“Sorry there, sir. I was resting my eyes, didn't see you come up.”

“They're still pretty red, friend. Eight more hours oughta do it. Can I find Captain Mantilla on board?”

“Engine room, I expect. He's usually there when we're not hauling.” The anchor watch stood up and gave his belt a lift. “Follow the blue streak.”

Sure enough, Valentine picked up a steady stream of grumbles and curses in English, Spanish, French and what he guessed to be Russian or Polish.

“C'mon,
panoche
. Loosen up, you bitch.
Kurva
, what's the matter with you this morning, you old
putain
.”

“Cap, this ol' boy's come aboard askin' for you,” the boatman called down the hatch. “Wearin' a TMCC pisscutter and a turkey on his collar.”

“
Merde
. Just a moment, Chief.” Valentine heard tools being put down, and then someone coming up the ladder.

Mantilla's face appeared in the sun, smeared with grease like Comanche war paint. He furrowed his brows. “Morning, Colonel. Saw you last night but damned if I can remember your name.”

“Le Sain,
mon frere
. I want to talk about getting a little extra cargo up here, the next time you come up the Arkansas.”

“Thanks, Jim Bob, I'll take it from here.” As the sailor moved back to his shady rest, Mantilla pulled out a cigarette and sat on the edge of the hatch. “What can I get you, Colonel?”

“I'm an old friend of Miss Bright's. You've done a few favors for her, and I need something similar. She sent me.”

Mantilla took a sidelong look at him and blew out a lungful of carcinogens. “You stick your head in the noose first, Le Sain.”

“When you talk to her faraway friends, you probably referr to her as Smoke. If you speak to the same people, call me Ghost.”

“Pleased to meet you. How can I help?”

“I need something brought to Southern Command.”

“Fair enough. I have to tell you plain, sir, that's getting trickier by the month. I can't guarantee anything. What is it, people, papers, photos?”

“Some wood. Just a few dozen four-by-four beams.”

“You're shitting me.”

“It's not really the wood, it's what's in the wood.”

“Gold? Platinum?”

“If you don't know, you can't tell anyone. I just want to know if you can get them into the Boston Mountains.”